Corporal Punishment
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: Sort-of-sequel to Fire At Will. Suhail reflects on life at the GC as he awaits his execution. There's some pretty graphic violence in this, which is why that lovely little M is tagged on. Read at your own risk.


**Author's Notes and Disclaimer:** Despite the fact I'm currently formulating a cunning plan to get Suhail declared my personal property, he isn't. He belongs to Jerry and Tim, but his total British awesomeness in this story belongs to me and me alone. This is sort of a sequel to Fire at Will, but it's mostly to make up for the fact that Suhail has NO death scene whatsoever. There is some very heavy violence in this, hence the rating, but there's no slash (I know! Weird, isn't it?), so don't worry on that score.

(o.o)

"Do you think yourself above corporal punishment?"

What sort of answer can you give to that? A yes (your Excellency), and that's it, you're defying the most powerful man in the world, here's your ticket to the next life, do not pass go, do not collect 200 nicks. A no (your Excellency), and you're blatantly asking for it. It pains me to admit, I do actually know people who _would _ask for it, who would _beg_ for it, because they'd think it undeniably kinky to have such a model of masculine perfection beating them.

Ooh, get me. How straight do I sound right about now? Christ, I sound like Leon or something. Actually, Leon would probably kill to be in my position at this moment in time. His Excellency hasn't sent a glance his way for weeks. Poor sod. Poor _delusional_ sod. The plain truth of it is, there's a minion that's going to be sent to inflict as much pain on me as possible- His Excellency isn't going to dirty his hands in my blood. There's so many other things to do when you rule the world.

And here comes the aforementioned minion now. GCMM uniform, but not a soldier I'm acquainted with. That does seem to be the case nowadays. Common thugs sign up, His Excellency puts them in uniform, and they throw their weight (with the weight of the whole organisation behind them) around, causing bad feeling amongst the citizens, and they get commended for it. The commendation being the only reason I know half of their names. There was a time that I basically had the run of this private army- I knew every man who I worked with, at least to be able to match name to face. These days, either my memory's a bit foggy or someone's stealing the command from under my feet. And, I don't want to make any insinuations, your Excellency, but I'm not so old or so brain-damaged yet that my memory's going.

Which is one of those sad things. Because I know I should be happy for my good memory, my (so far) good health, but I really resent the fact that I'm not blessed with blissful amnesia. There are some things a man shouldn't have to remember when he's sober. There are some things a man should never have to witness. The majority of which have been done, if not by my own hand, then at least on a set of insane orders that I passed on to my obedient troops. I've seen men and women guillotined (_why_ did that invention not stay in the seventeenth century, where it bloody well belonged?); I've shot my own soldiers for no apparent offence, other than that their continued existence is an affront to His Excellency; I've raided homes without warning, watched my men shoot all the occupants indiscriminately. You try watching a small child shot in the back and then tell me the image doesn't stay with you. I did that. I followed orders that should never have been given. I could have stopped it all.

But if I had, then I'd have been the next one with a bullet in my spine. Because beneath all this strong, emotionless, soldier bravado, I'm a coward. I'd never tell my men, or my only superior (who am I kidding- he knows already, it's how he manages to control me), but I am just that little bit afraid of dying. I never used to be- what good's a soldier who isn't willing to lay down his life- but not too long ago, something clicked inside. I spend too much time on New Babylon's death row, that's the problem. Those people- Tribulation Forcers, they call themselves- they wait patiently until they're called for execution. They kneel in quiet huddles and they pray. I mean, I don't begrudge a man the right to pray to his God before his death, but they act as though they look forward to it. And- this is the weirdest thing- when you're taking them into the courtyard, they look at you, and you can see it in their eyes- _they_ feel sorry for _you_. It's like they know something you don't. Or worse, something you do, something that only you do.

The first blow stings, but it doesn't hurt so much. I'm used to it- I was the military school rebel. You wouldn't think it, to look at me. Rebels don't become generals, traditionally. But with a powerful sponsor you can do wonderful things. Maybe he admired my spirit- maybe that was it. Not because it's an admirable quality in his followers, I'm sure. Because what good are the broken ones? They're no fun. This is what Leon doesn't understand. Poor Leon. He's like Carpathia's broken toy- he'd do anything for the man, unthinking, unheeding of the dangers. I mean, I don't know whether he had all that much spine to begin with, but now- now His Excellency has risen again- well, it's pitiful.

There are more now. One after another, the blows rain down. I'm fine, I'm really fine. I'm not really here. If I take myself away to a happy place or some such rubbish, then I'll survive this. If only I had a happy place to go to, you know? I haven't known happiness for a long while. So I retreat, back into myself, back into the discipline I learnt once upon a time. I recite all the lessons to myself, in my head, while my body is being beaten like a dusty rug.

A rib snaps with an audible crack, and I can hear a soft little laugh from behind me.

Well, hello there, Your Excellency. I'd bow, but I'm a little busy at the moment. This is what I want to say. I'm going to die anyway, I might as well go out defiant. It isn't what I end up saying, though.

"Your Excellency," a necessarily brief acknowledgement of his presence. That broken rib is making breathing difficult. No time for speeches. No breath.

"Commander Akbar." He doesn't need to acknowledge me, he knows he doesn't, but he does so anyway. He's still behind me, and I can't see him. This is worrying, although even if I could see his face, he's made an art of being absolutely inscrutable. The problem isn't his face. I can't see his hands.

Another wallop, harder than the last fifty-odd. The stick, or club or whatever it is, shatters on my back. I can feel some of the splinters sticking, but that's nothing compared to the ribs that gave in to that almighty blow.

He sounds out of breath when he speaks next.

"You are a very quiet one, Commander."

"Your Excellency."

"Most men," he pauses, and another heavy implement comes crashing down onto my shoulders, "would have at least yelled by now. But you remain silent. Is it obstinacy?"

"No, Your Excellency."

"Do you feel it?" Another whack.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Why do you not cry out then?"

"I was trained not to."

"Ah. The famous military reserve. Incidentally, you forgot my title there." Another whack, another shattered plank. I don't know where he's getting these sticks from- they feel like cricket bats or something, and when I was strung up in here I didn't see any handy piles of wood. There must be a minion standing beside him with an armful of the things. Watching me get beaten. I wonder if it's one of my lads. It probably is.

"Sorry, Your Excellency."

"Better."

The next swipe comes in lower, hitting both of my calves too fast for my knees to bend. I feel my shinbones snap, and for the first time since I was strung up, a noise escapes me. I bite it off, but I know he's heard it. My breath's coming harder, whistling between my teeth. Ribs are fine, but when you've got no legs to stand on, and your arms are tied above your head, it's a battle with suffocation. As long as he doesn't go for my arms next.

But no, he's decided enough is enough, for now at least. Leave me to stew over my broken legs, allow the pain to settle into background noise and then he'll break my arms. It'll hurt all the more, without the pain from my legs to drown it out. The man's an artist. I tortured, once upon a time, but I never had the cold-blooded knack to drag it out for as long as I could. It's not a weak stomach, it's just by the time we'd broken all their fingers they'd usually told us everything useful.

Carpathia doesn't deal in fingers. He deals in big bones, vital ones to your well-being. He wouldn't break every bone in my body- that would be a waste of strength. He'll just break the ones I need. Economy of effort. He's a practised hand, I'll give him that. Knows where to hit, how hard to hit, and how long to leave it before hitting again. I wonder how many people he's beaten to death.

There's an almost balletic grace to him as he stalks around to face me, wandering into the light like a predator. A tiger, maybe. Only this tiger is full of rage, not just blind hunger. Rage and malice. I always wondered what he did with his time now he doesn't sleep. I guess now I have my answer. He comes downstairs, into the basement, and deals out his wrath onto the prisoners, the failures.

It wasn't even my fault. I failed and I had no idea precisely what I'd done. I was condemned to death (or almost death, I get the feeling he'll know exactly when to stop) for something I wasn't entirely sure about. I didn't know what was going on. It was that feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I'm always in the wrong time. My time was years ago, back when the world was sane.

He's looking at me, not saying anything, just pacing back and forth before me like a wild animal in a cage. All that pent-up aggression, like a lion who's been treated as a pet cat for decades, and has suddenly discovered it has claws and a lot of time to make up. His fists flex and clench, and then it's a one, two, three and I'm reeling. He came out of nowhere, a couple of quick steps and there's another rib given up the fight. With his bare hands, he does more damage than he did with the stick.

It was hard enough breathing with broken legs and my arms suspended from the ceiling- add being severely winded to that list and it's a lost cause. I'm getting light-headed. My world's going white. I smile, because I won't know about it when he does hit again.

But the colour's coming back. He's lifting me off the floor with one hand, allowing my chest to expand just enough for me to breathe. I haven't got the air to protest, either. This shirt's about to give in, though, so he'll have a problem keeping me aloft in a minute or two.

He doesn't want to keep me up for long. A powerful punch collides with the side of my face, and I know with a moment of absolute clarity that my jawbone just broke. He stops holding me up, and my shirt comes away with his fist. Holding onto the chain, I just about manage to pull myself into a position where I can gulp in a few more mouthfuls of air, choking on a soup of my own blood and teeth. I spit, and gasp for a little more air. Odd how the urge to live is so strong, even now.

I'm beginning to wish he'd say something. Like 'it's a shame you have to die', or 'you were a good general, Suhail'. Even if the words are totally insincere, it'd be nice to hear them at the end. Who am I kidding- Nicolae was never one for compliments when I was in his good books, he's not exactly going to be showering me with praise as he kills me for incompetence.

I think he's going to kill me. It's a cold realisation, a welcome shiver of ice down my spine in this baking heat. I think he's changed his mind about this 'to the point of death' thing. I don't think this is a lesson any more. This is an execution.

Just as that comes to me in an icy revelation, another blow comes smashing into my back, shattering a vertebra. At least, I assume that's what happened, as I can't feel my legs any longer. I don't know whether this is a blessing or a curse. I can't stand up, all my muscles have turned into disobedient spaghetti. But on the plus side, the agony of my broken shinbones is now alien to me.

He stalks back into the light again, and either he's hiding his rage better, or my eyes are failing. He seems calm, not dancing about on his toes like a prizefighter. He walks, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, across the packed sand. He looks at me, and if I didn't know better I'd think he was admiring me. Another flurry of footsteps, another punch to the face. I can feel fresh blood flowing down my face, between my lips, and it feels like my nose is broken. Not admiring, then. Appraising, trying to fix the next brush stroke on the canvas.

He still hasn't broken my arms. I'm holding onto this chain with a death-grip, it's the only thing between me and suffocation. I'm getting tired, though, and with a broken nose that's half the ability to breathe knocked off the table.

He isn't going to kill me.

He's going to let exhaustion kill me.

But not just yet. Another blow to the face, and I'm blind. Something forces itself out of my broken mouth- a bubble of red containing a sound. Let the bubble keep the sound, don't let Nicolae hear my pain. I won't say a word. I won't give him the satisfaction.

I force open one eye, but the other isn't there, isn't reporting. It's just a blur of static, bizarre red swirling shapes that hook into my brain and tear chunks out of my sense of perception. Nicolae stands at the centre of them, controlling the dragons of blood that are circling around, waiting to pounce.

My whole face is slick and wet. Blood and whatever other liquids have been eked out flow freely down my face. I can taste metal, and salt. I spit. I'm going to drown in my own fluids if I don't. I'll die breathing in blood, not sweet desert air. At this moment in time, that air is like nectar. I drink it hungrily, inbetween waves of blood.

Another crack, and we're back to ribs again. The blow sounds far away, muffled behind the ringing in my ears. It's an enticing thought. Somebody else is being beaten to death, Suhail, and you're in the next room, doing what you do best these days in the GC- trying not to hear.

Hearing rumours can get you killed round here. So I don't. It's not just rumours of secret plans, it's rumours of silly things, like what Nicolae's coronation robe looks like. Or who's being promoted to fill the gap left by whatever poor sod managed to get himself shot in the head this week. We're all paranoid, living on knife-edges, dancing and cutting ourselves to ribbons as we try not to fall off. We are afraid and alone, within the safety bubble of our own heads.

There goes an arm, at last. The beginning of the end. The other one is still hanging on, still pulling me up every so often to gulp another ridiculously small breath. My body's on autopilot. I'm no longer at the controls.

I'm wandering the GC headquarters, seeing friendly faces on all sides. All those bright young things that I've shot in sandy dungeons- they're here now, and they click their heels together and salute me as I go past. The uniforms are wrong, though. The GCMM uniform doesn't look like that- the insignia's not right and the badges on the berets are the wrong shape. This is the old army, the one we used to have before Nicolae came and commandeered us. The Army, come back from the mists of memory to give me a proper send-off.

"Good afternoon, General," this and other greetings like it rise over the ringing in my ears, and my own ragged breathing. I nod in return to every salute, and a smile is growing on my face. An end to war is all well and good, but I was born to be a soldier, and this is where I feel at home.

My old barracks are coming up fast. Last I saw, they were a wreck, but here they are, restored to their former glory. My quarters are at the end of this corridor, through that door. It's opening. And there's Jumana, jumping aside with a little gasp of shock as Fadil runs past her and flings himself at me, nearly knocking me over.

The other arm breaks, and I can hear it, as firing practice at the other end of the base. That's it then, I note in the back of my mind. I can hear the gurgling, a horrible sound at the best of times, as the blood and the spit and the dust collect in my mouth, blocking the air from coming in. My head feels as though it's filling up with cotton wool. Everything in front of my eyes goes white, erasing Jumana and Fadil's faces, and all the soldiers at the barracks.

This time, the colour doesn't come back.


End file.
